


Run

by MsMxyzptlk



Category: Jahar Tsarnaev
Genre: Boston Marathon bombing, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 11:29:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2545940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsMxyzptlk/pseuds/MsMxyzptlk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>“Run” was inspired by a story I started reading on Wattpad called “Saints Uninvited.” The author, Nastyia1, gave us a Jahar (but she used his given name of Dzhokhar) who was every bit a real person – tending to hide his fear with brave humor, having many acquaintances but no one to share his heart with, a little fucked-up like we all are – but essentially decent and searching for the right thing to do.<br/>Unfortunately, Nastyia1 stopped writing “Saints Uninvited” halfway through. I understand there could be many reasons why this happened – family emergency, a new job, no longer being interested in writing this tale, and so on – but still, from a purely personal point of view I wasn’t happy about it then or now. (This is also why I only post completed work online, no matter how long it takes. And this story was a long time coming, believe me.)<br/>“Run” is not a continuation or a sequel to “Saints Uninvited”; I would not presume to use another fanfic writer’s work without permission. The storyline is different as well – it’s essentially a two-person story, Dzhokhar and his female friend who wonders if they will ever be anything more.<br/>(What do you think? Just scroll through the rest of my work and guess.)<br/>For the first time, I’m giving my female protagonist a name – Suzy, based on my own middle name. I’m doing this because this story has two POVs and it would be strange for one of them to remain nameless.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Run

**Author's Note:**

> “Run” was inspired by a story I started reading on Wattpad called “Saints Uninvited.” The author, Nastyia1, gave us a Jahar (but she used his given name of Dzhokhar) who was every bit a real person – tending to hide his fear with brave humor, having many acquaintances but no one to share his heart with, a little fucked-up like we all are – but essentially decent and searching for the right thing to do.  
> Unfortunately, Nastyia1 stopped writing “Saints Uninvited” halfway through. I understand there could be many reasons why this happened – family emergency, a new job, no longer being interested in writing this tale, and so on – but still, from a purely personal point of view I wasn’t happy about it then or now. (This is also why I only post completed work online, no matter how long it takes. And this story was a long time coming, believe me.)  
> “Run” is not a continuation or a sequel to “Saints Uninvited”; I would not presume to use another fanfic writer’s work without permission. The storyline is different as well – it’s essentially a two-person story, Dzhokhar and his female friend who wonders if they will ever be anything more.  
> (What do you think? Just scroll through the rest of my work and guess.)  
> For the first time, I’m giving my female protagonist a name – Suzy, based on my own middle name. I’m doing this because this story has two POVs and it would be strange for one of them to remain nameless.

It takes three days to get used to sleeping in a car.

One day to learn how to sleep on the obtuse angle of a fully reclined car seat.

Two days to learn the right amount of movement to keep yourself warm, because the inside of a car in the middle of the night was damn cold, even in April.

Three days to understand that this was your new normal, and if you kept thinking about what you left behind, you wouldn’t have time to think about what you need to do today.

My feet rested on the concrete of the nearly-deserted parking lot of a large shopping center. I had the passenger door open, because I had awakened earlier than I expected. I held the edge of an opened Doritos bag with one hand and lifted the chips up to my mouth with the other, eating them as quietly as I could so I wouldn’t wake up my companion.

I never ate Doritos in my real life – that is, the life I had before living in my car. Even on the rare times I chose junk food, it was always Rold Gold pretzels. This morning, though, Doritos would be my breakfast.

Fugitives couldn’t be choosers.

“Save some for me?”

The sudden voice made me feel I jumped out of my skin.

“Damn, Dzhokhar, you’re scary!”

My friend just laughed and gently snatched the bag from my hands.

“Now Suzy, I’m only a lion on Twitter.”

He tilted the bag back and let the unnaturally orange triangles – and the dust that was their fake-cheesy coating – fall into his mouth. He coughed and reached for one of the half-full water bottles left loose in the car.

The small Doritos bag barely covered our appetites. I was still hungry. I knew my friend had to be. Even though he had the profile of a telephone pole, he could destroy half a large pizza in less than fifteen minutes when he had his munch on.

If only we could get a hold of a pizza now. If only we could walk into the mall as soon as it opened.

But “if only” didn’t matter anymore.

“Ready to move on?”

“Yeah.”

I turned ninety degrees so my feet were back in the car, and shut the door. My friend started the engine, and we were back on the road.

Running.

Running for our lives.

* * *

My friend and I had to make the world think that we did not exist.

At the very least, not under the identities we had known all of our lives.

I could go out in the world, if I had my hoodie up and wore sunglasses. My name was still unknown to the public.

My friend’s, however, was all over the place.

He had a target on his back…on his front…on every inch of his body.

The person who shot him would be hailed as a hero.

Why?

He was worse than a criminal.

Worse than a mere murderer.

He was a terrorist…a terrorist because he and his brother set off the bombs at the Boston Marathon last Monday.

And because they were Muslims.

Only Christians with guns had the privilege of just being misunderstood, nothing to change laws about.

* * *

Late Thursday afternoon, the FBI released the photos of the two suspects. The man with the black hat I did not recognize at all, but the slim younger man in the white hat...

No.

_No._

It couldn’t be.

I saw some Tweets in my feed from our mutual friends:

“Jahar is this you?”

“if I didn’t know better I’d swear that was Jahar.”

“sheeit if that’s my nigga Jahar imma eat my hat”

I didn’t type a word.

I refused to connect the pixelated face of the “white hat” suspect with that of the boy I’d known for two years.

I refused to believe that Dzhokhar would have anything to do with this brutal, cruel crime.

Yes, he did wear a white Polo hat with the number 3 on the side sometimes. Yes, I’d seen him in a black hoodie, and sometimes he’d be carrying a grayish backpack...

_Dzhokhar is so many things...but “terrorist” is not one of them._

_He wouldn’t even hurt a fly!_

_That man on the video has to be someone else. Has to be. Has to be._

I called him, but he did not answer. My heart beat faster.

I needed to hear him say it: “That guy isn’t me.”

I spent all evening in my dorm room, too stressed to study, too worried to eat. Finally, after the sun went down, he sent me a text:

_suzy come see me downstairs bring your purse and car keys_

I went downstairs and met him outside the residence hall. He wore black jeans, a dark gray Adidas hoodie which covered his curly hair, and a grim expression on his face.

He carried a white plastic bag filled with small bottles of water and a bag of Doritos, and a large black duffel bag rested at his feet.

“I need a ride,” he asked simply.

I didn’t ask him why, or where he was going.

“Okay, Dzhokhar.”

He kept his head low as he followed me through the student parking lot. When I found my white 2001 Toyota Corolla sedan, I unlocked the passenger side door.

“Let me drive,” he said. “I’m in a hurry, and I know you’re a grandma behind the wheel.” He cracked a weak smile.

Even though my car insurance policy (which my parents still paid for) disallowed other people from driving my car, much less a...how should I put this... _daring_ driver such as Dzhokhar, I gave him the keys.

I was just so grateful that I could help him...and that we would have some one-on-one time.

He put the duffel bag into the trunk, gave me the small plastic bag, and then opened the driver’s side door. We tore out of the parking lot like a dog running from the sound of a gunshot. Dzhokhar pulled out a portable GPS device and attached it to the dashboard.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Highway I-95.”

That would take us south, in the direction of New York City. Dzhokhar had told me of his adventures with his male friends in the Big Apple, epic boys’ nights out that didn’t end until the sun came up.

“Going to the City?” Didn’t need to say more.

“A little further than that.”

I was holding the plastic bag in my lap.

“Do you want some water?”

“Not now. You can have some if you want.”

“Thanks.”

I unscrewed one and sipped silently. Dzhokhar turned on the radio.

“ – manhunt for the Boston Marathon bombing suspect, who is – ”

Quickly, he turned the radio off.

_Why did he turn it off so quickly? Didn’t he want to learn more, like everyone else?_

“People are saying that the man in the white hat looked like you. But it can’t be you...can it?”

He leaned back and looked off into the distance. All we could hear was the whirr of the spinning tires and the thrum of the engine.

“Did you do it?”

The silence should have given me all the answers I needed. But I could not leave it at that. I didn’t trust mere intuition – I needed confirmation.

“Dzhokhar...”

“If I didn’t do it,” he intoned, “we wouldn’t be running.”

* * *

I flipped through my memories as if they were pages in a book.

Dzhokhar, the cute curly-haired boy who walked straight up to the new girl in school after she – frightfully I thought back then, with courage I thought now – gave a small speech in world history class about why “cultural appropriation” wasn’t this horrible offense that so-called “social justice warriors” thought it was; in fact it was more like cultural appreciation. He told me that I was right on, that there was really no such thing as “pure” culture because “everybody borrows from everybody.”

Dzhokhar, who led me into his circle of friends so that I wouldn’t feel so lonely...

Dzhokhar, the boy with the weed and the pizza and the sarcasm and the rap (sometimes in Russian)…

Dzhokhar, who made me laugh and listened to me cry…

Dzhokhar, whom I’d quietly fallen in love with…and didn’t think myself good enough for.

Dzhokhar…

 _He_ did this horrific thing?

 _He_ left a bomb in a crowd of people and set it off, knowing it would rip apart flesh at best and end life at worst?

 _He_ was now the most hated man in America?

I looked at the side of his face. His eyes were both wide and exhausted, desperately staying open because they had no other choice.

“We were going to go to New York tonight.”

His words staggered out of his mouth like prisoners kept in the dark for too long.

“My brother and I. Tamerlan. He was the guy in the black hat.”

The guy whose face was half-covered with sunglasses. I remembered Dzhokhar mentioning a brother to me at some point, a brother who was older and “hardcore” into Islam.

“We had some more bombs in our car...but we couldn’t get far on our own before someone recognized us. So Tam jacked another car...a black Mercedes...he had a gun and just pointed it at the guy who was driving. We stopped to get food and drink for our long drive...but the guy escaped. We had to get out fast. Then some cops stopped us. Tam got out and started shooting. I just ran away. I...don’t know what happened to him.”

“Do you want to know?”

With a trembling hand, he turned on the radio again.

“...killed in a shootout with police. His brother, Dzhokhar, escaped...”

Dzhokhar screamed, a cry of agony which filled the car. Filled our worlds.

I covered his hand with mine.

He gripped the steering wheel harder. One tear rolled down his face. Then another. Then another.

“No.”

He wiped his face with his hand.

“I can’t cry now. It’s far from over.”

He looked at me.

“I have to think of you now.”

That was Dzhokhar. In the worst crisis of his life, he thought about his friends.

* * *

The traffic thickened, like quality ketchup struggling to escape from a narrow-necked bottle.

Dzhokhar angled his head slightly to the right and tugged his hoodie over his left cheek. The news had his name. He knew it followed that it also had his picture, and was blasting it on every fucking TV show and website so the whole world and its dog could join in on the new game: _Find the Terrorist._

Suzy was the smartest girl that he knew...but she was also as naïve as a newborn baby. That put him in the bizarre position of depending on her and having to protect her at the same time.

_You couldn’t do this alone, you know._

Dzhokhar clenched the steering wheel harder. It was something to hold on to when nearly everything else in his life was zipping past his grasp, as if he were floating inside of a tornado.

Why the fuck did he agree to his brother’s outrageous plan?

He closed his eyes, not long enough to put him and Suzy in danger, but enough to pull his thoughts into focus.

He did it for one reason, and it was the only one that mattered: Allah needed him to do it. Needed him, and Tamerlan, to take a stand and defend the _ummah._ They were soldiers in a holy war.

He hated, more than the people who were now screaming for his blood would ever know, the reality that he had taken human lives. Separated legs from bodies. Left permanent scars, both physical and mental. He felt no joy in the destruction that he and Tamerlan had wrought.

But what other choice did they have?

If he had been drafted by the U.S. military – when he became a citizen, he became subject to Selective Service just like any other man his age – loyalty would have forced him to kill whether he liked it or not.

What greater loyalty did he have save for his God?

Dzhokhar had not been true to his faith’s practices. His attendance at mosque was sporadic. He had gone days without praying, or even thinking about it. He had cussed. Smoked. Drank. Fucked. The one rule he had consistently followed has the injunction against eating pork. That was only because it was so easy.

Not like bombing a marathon.

_For once in my life, I did the hard thing, Allah. I hope You saw. I hope You understand._

* * *

_Here I am._

_Driving away from everything with the boy I love._

_He needed my car. He liked me, or so he acted like it – but he needed my car._

_Oh, well. I should be grateful that I had one to let him use._

“Where are we going, Dzhokhar?”

“Out of Massachusetts. Out of America, best case scenario.”

“Wha – are we going to Mexico?”

“We’re going to try Cuba. Cuba hates America, they won’t send me back.”

My first thought, shamefully enough, wasn’t _How are you going to get to Cuba once you get to the end of Florida?_

It was, _Do you want me to come to Cuba with you?_

I couldn’t ask that out loud. Guys didn’t like needy, clingy girls. Especially guys who could have any girl they wanted, like Dzhokhar.

I was never at the top of the list of girls guys wanted.

I guess I should’ve considered myself lucky that I didn’t have major flaws, like obesity or severe acne or facial hair or scars or red birthmarks on my face. Still, my brown hair was just that – brown and flat, without that mirror shine that TV commercials insisted hair must have. I had an oval face and eyebrows which were a little too thick to be fashionable. My breasts were barely large enough to offset my waist, which could be narrower if I gave up lattes and hamburgers forever and got up at 5 a.m. every day to run five miles before class began – a task which my short, dumpy legs didn’t even want to think about.

My wardrobe was careless – mostly T-shirts, yoga pants, and sneakers. I did have a few fancy scarves, but I often forgot they existed before I walked out the door. I had said, and always thought, that I didn’t go to college to party – I went to study and learn. In the real world, that philosophy didn’t even give me the satisfaction of righteousness.

Why couldn’t I be more like Dzhokhar – carefree, open, friendly, confident? Walking up to people and speaking as if he knew he had the right to?

What was I afraid of?

Being hurt...again.

* * *

“Tsarnaev is wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt with the word ‘Adidas’ on it…”

“Oh, fuck.” Dzhokhar looked down at his sweatshirt, which was exactly as the newsman described. “I’ve got to get out of this thing...but it’s the only one I have.”

“What if I bought a new sweatshirt for you? I haven’t heard my name in the news yet. I’ll bet people don’t know that I’m missing.”

_Except people in my classes who are just starting to notice my absence._

“Yeah, that wouldn’t be a bad idea. We should stock up on food, too, for going to restaurants is out.”

The big red logo of Target appeared on a high-rise off-highway sign, as welcome to us now as a sunrise.

“Let’s stop there,” I suggested.

Dzhokhar silently assented by exiting the highway.

Once we found the Target’s parking lot, he surprised me by parking as close to the door as possible, rather than an inconspicuous corner of the lot.

“The sooner you can get in and out, the better,” he explained. “Oh, and leave your wallet here. You can’t use your card.”

“But I only have twenty-three dollars in cash.”

Dzhokhar reached into his hoodie pocket and removed a fat wad of twenties. He gave me about $300. I was not surprised. He had been the campus weed dealer, and I had seen him handle large amounts of money before.

“I usually wear medium, but large or even extra-large is okay. It wouldn’t hurt to wear baggy.”

I looked into his eyes.

“I’ll be out as soon as I can.”

“If you don’t see me here when you get out, Suzy...they caught me.”

* * *

It was a good thing that Target stores were just about the same all over – clothes on the left side, food on the right.

I found white and yellow hoodies for Dzhokhar – I never saw him wear yellow, but an unusual color might throw his pursuers off track. I also grabbed some wool caps to hide his curls, and a pack of boxer shorts in case he wanted to feel fresh “down there.”

In the food section, I concentrated on things that didn’t need heating – cans of Chef Boy-Ar-Dee, Campbell’s soups, tuna, individual tubs of dried cereal, bagged snacks, packs of soda, Starbucks Doubleshots, energy drinks, and pallets of drinking water. I did not forget a can opener, plastic utensils, and napkins.

Oh, and delights for his notorious sweet tooth – a pallet of KitKats and the largest jar of Nutella I could find.

In the middle of the store, I picked up two large pillows and two full-size blankets – one made of cotton, and a thicker polyester one with a plaid pattern. Finally, I found another black duffel bag to carry it all in.

_What else do we need for a long trip to the bottom of America?_

_I don’t know right now. All I know is that we need to keep on moving, moving, moving...like Aladdin, we need to keep one step ahead._

* * *

Back on the road, I opened a bag of Smartfood popcorn, and Dzhokhar and I devoured it like hungry kittens.

“Do you want a Coke, Dzhokhar?”

“No way. If I even had a sip, my heart would fucking explode. I’m running on fear and adrenaline right now. But thanks anyhow, Suzy.”

I leaned back into my seat, carefully sipping a twenty-ounce Coke Zero. I tried to keep my eyes on the road...but damn them, they kept drifting back to Dzhokhar. To his classic European profile, nose bumps and all.

_American boys – well, native-born American boys – don’t have noses like that._

_I knew I couldn’t hang with any Yankee McAmericans. It’s the stranger, the odd duck, who lures me in...because sometimes I don’t feel like I fit into this country, either._

_Why do you have to be so fucking beautiful, Dzhokhar?_

_Dzhokhar with a D?_

All of his other friends shortened his name to five simple letters: _Jahar._ I couldn’t do that.

I loved the complexity, the mystery of the name he was given at birth: _Dzhokhar._ It was a tough nut to crack. It was months before I could spell it correctly and consistently. And I had to teach myself not to say Zo-kar, as my mind said it must be pronounced, but Jo-har.

The way his casual friends said it, though.

_Yo, Ja-haaa, whatup? Ja-haaa, pass me the fuckin’ blunt. Ja-haaa, got a little sumpin-sumpin for my brahs down here?_

_Ja-haaa, Ja-haaa, Ja-haaa._ Made his name sound like an animal call.

 _Jo-harrr._ It slipped out of my mouth like a spray of perfume.

If only I could whisper it into his ear as he was taking me into his arms...

The dainty fairy bells of my ringtone interrupted my sweet fantasy.

I froze, pulling back the impulse I’d had all my life – when a phone rings, answer it right away.

I could feel waves of tension vibrating out of Dzhokhar, too. My phone was not just a phone, it was a tracking device – one which could draw the authorities to us like sugar attracted ants.

The bells stopped.

Dzhokhar carefully changed lanes so he could get to the shoulder of the road. I could feel the wheels transitioning from smooth asphalt to bumpy gravel.

He rolled the car to a complete stop. He didn’t ask before he reached into my purse and pulled out my phone, a Samsung Galaxy S3 with a pink sleeve to cover its boring blackness.

He got out of the car and walked a few steps away. I saw him drop the phone to the ground. I saw him lift his foot and bring it down. Hard. Several times.

He got back into the car. Without the phone.

“I’m sorry, Suzy,” he said. “Our normal lives are gone. Forever.”

_Ain’t it the truth._

He stroked the back of my hand...and it felt like a kiss.

* * *

Miles down the road, I was still feeling that stroke.

The stroke that felt like a kiss.

_You’re alone with Dzhokhar, Suzy._

_You’re the only girl in his world right now._

_What are you going to do about it?_

Well...

I remembered a conversation I’d had last February – close to Valentine’s Day, ironically enough – with Cara, one of Dzhokhar’s female friends from high school who had known him long before I did. I was intimidated by Cara, who was everything that I was not – blonde, thin, confident, accomplished. Cara even got into a university far more prestigious than the state school Dzhokhar and I attended.

I couldn’t help but think that he had a little crush on her. How could he not?

But what she had said stunned me.

“You’re in a good place with Jizz, Suzy.”

“Jizz?”

“That’s one of his high school nicknames.”

I didn’t think, _Don’t they know the other meaning of that word?_

I thought, _That’s one difference between being his friend and being in his inner circle._

“Anyway, you’re a girl who’s a friend. That means he respects you. He does not respect the girls he hooks up with. I don’t think he’s spent more than a night with any one of those hoes. He runs smack about them with his guy friends – he calls them ‘scratches,’ as in things that scratch his itch.”

“So…” The next words came out as a bare whisper. “How do I get him to want to be more than friends with me?”

“You can’t. No girl around here can, either. After Jizz graduates from college, he’s going back to Chechnya to marry a girl his mother picked out for him – a Chechen, Muslim, virgin girl.”

My heart crumbled to pieces.

_But I love him._

“Did he…tell you this himself?”

“No. I heard from Azzman that was his most likely plan.” Azzman was the nickname of one of Dzhokhar’s college friends, a native Kazakh who, with his roommate Dizzy, were the off-campus party hosts with the most.

_“Most likely”…doesn’t mean “for sure.”_

_Oh, stop with the bullshit hope train, Suzy. Dzhokhar is just one more good thing in life you’ll never get to have._

My eyes grew wet at the memory of my hopeless thought.

I was Dzhokhar’s friend.

But I would never be his girlfriend.

I wouldn’t even be one of his “scratches.”

What kinds of girls did he usually hang out with?

Girls who wore low-cut shirts and bras that pushed their cleavage as far front as it would go. Girls whose Twitter feeds were full of words like “nigga” and “brah” and “sherm” and “swag.” Girls who smoked weed and drank liquor out of red plastic cups, leaving their lipstick on the edges.

Girls not like me at all.

_You don’t know how lucky you are he asked you to do this. Shut up and be grateful you’re spending so much time with him._

“Were you really planning to go home to Chechnya and get married after graduation?”

My mouth nearly slammed down on my tongue once those words came out.

Why was I playing with fire – at this point in his life?

That was a non sequitur question.

Dzhokhar, bless his soul, just answered it.

“I thought about it. For a while, I believed it was my most likely plan. But when I got involved in the bomb plot…I understood that going back home and getting married to anyone could not be in my future. I expected to die soon after the bombings…either by police or at Times Square. Tamerlan made it clear that Times Square would be a suicide attack.”

My heart shuddered at Tamerlan’s deadly instructions. But the next words out of my mouth were outstandingly irrelevant. My curiosity about the wrong things just wouldn’t quit.

“Did…did you know the girl you would have married?”

He shook his head. “My mom hadn’t actually found a girl yet. The wedding would have been a couple of years away in any event.”

“Did having a bride chosen for you bother you?”

“It’s part of our culture.” He frowned slightly. “Though it didn’t work out for either of my sisters.”

“Do you think American girls are…um…not quite as good?”

Now Dzhokhar laughed.

“American girls are great,” he insisted. “Why else did I pick one to help me?”

* * *

_Why did I pick this American girl to help me?_

Why not one of the girls who’d known his now-embarrassing high school nickname?

Why not one of the girls whom he’d unzipped his pants for? (Some of those, though, would have dropped a dime if they’d seen dollar signs in it…)

Suzy was sweet.

She was innocent.

She was trusting.

She cared about him…a lot. He could tell.

She would do anything for him.

She wasn’t the kind of girl he wanted to _fuck._

Wait.

If he had said that out loud – _you’re not the kind of girl I want to fuck_ – it would break her heart. She would hear it as, _No guy would want to make love to you._

That wasn’t true at all. Suzy was as beautiful as she was kind. She was a beautiful that was real, not one that tried too hard. Her simple, parted-in-the-middle hairstyle and unplucked eyebrows were a throwback to a simpler time, a time before people were not only expected to look like models, but were supposed to take pictures of themselves and post them online as proof.

He loved the way she looked below the chin, too. Skinny girls came in two categories – those who came by it naturally, were proud of it, and wondered why everyone wasn’t so, and those who starved themselves and were tense and bitchy as a result. Suzy had the shape that made girls _girls._

Damn right there had been nights, nights when he hadn’t scored a scratch, nights when porn seemed so fucking boring, when he’d lie on his bed, push his roommate’s snoring out of his brain, close his eyes, and think of Suzy…kissing her lips, her forehead, her nose, the tender skin of her breasts, cupping her smooth buttocks, lying atop her pillow-soft body with only moonlight covering their skin…always, his right hand would end up around his cock, his top sheet would end up wet.

The one reason why he hadn’t tried to bring to life his fantasies about Suzy was because she was his friend.

The only one he had left in the world.

Without her, he would be up shit creek not only without a paddle, but without a canoe.

* * *

A white car shifted into the spot in front of us on the highway. It was an older car, judging by the length of its trunk and its boxy profile. The most memorable part of this car, though, was the sticker on the lower right of its chrome bumper:

We’ll Never Forget!  
We’ll Never Forgive!

next to an illustration of the Twin Towers which were destroyed on September 11, 2001 – when I was eight and Dzhokhar hadn’t come to America yet.

I shut my eyes. Today, so many more people had a reason never to forget, never to forgive.

“Fucking ass.”

Dzhokhar’s expletives made me open my eyes again.

“He should know it works both ways...Allah won’t forget, and He won’t forgive, what America has done and is continuing to do to His people. 9/11 should have opened America’s eyes. But, no...the bitch has doubled down on its imperialism and its arrogance.”

He gripped the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white.

“Tamerlan and I...we did what we had to do. We were only two men with two bombs...but they hurt America. I hope it stings for decades.”

While we were in high school, I sat at a table at a Five Guys burger joint with Dzhokhar and some of his friends. One of the guys asked him about 9/11, and he said that it might have been justified because of America’s often violent foreign policy.

_How many times do the chickens have to come home to roost?_

* * *

“Suzy.”

I felt a nudge on my left arm.

“Suzy. You should listen to this.”

My eyes cracked open.

Another voice came into the car, a somber, older voice:

“...friends of the missing girl say she was part of Tsarnaev’s inner circle.”

“They said your name, Suzy. They know.”

“The FBI is now searching for a white 2001 Toyota Corolla with a Massachusetts license plate...”

He shut off the radio.

_“Fuck!”_

Dzhokhar lurched the car towards the nearest exit.

“This car is hot. We have to ditch it.”

At a speed which threatened to attract the cops we feared, Dzhokhar got off the highway and onto a major street.

It was now early evening. The sun had gone down, leaving a rich dark blue in the sky. Some businesses were still open, but others weren’t...including independent used car lots.

Dzhokhar found one, marked with an indistinctive square sign that said “Paul’s Used Cars...’cause the little guy cares more.” He parked the Corolla a few car lengths away.

“Let’s hurry.”

We got out of the car fast. Paul’s didn’t have a fence, so the fronts of the cars almost pointed into the sidewalk.

He surveyed the cars, then put his hand on the hood of a white Saturn coupe.

“This one.”  


He ran back to the Corolla and popped open the trunk. He came back out with a long thin object that resembled a jockey’s riding crop – and handed it to me.

“You’re going to have to break into the car, Suzy.”

“What?”

“I’ll show you how. But we have to hurry.”

I stared at the tool.

I had never stolen anything in my life – not even a candy bar at the corner store.

“It’s really important that you do this. I’ll explain why later. Right now, just listen and do what I tell you. Our freedom depends on it.”

I looked into his eyes. He was as serious as a nuclear attack.

“Okay, Dzhokhar.”

Slowly and patiently, like a mother teaching a child how to tie shoes, Dzhokhar taught me exactly how to break into a car.

* * *

Dzhokhar watched Suzy transfer the bags and the water pallet from the trunk of the Corolla to the trunk of the Saturn. He felt awful for not helping her, but he was finally feeling the stress in his body. His whole body was not just shaking, it was vibrating. He paced back and forth, his teeth turning his right fingernail into pulp.

The worst thing he ever did was kill and maim those people.

The second worst thing he ever did was drag Suzy into what he knew would be a suicide mission.

They wouldn’t make it to Florida, much less Cuba. If they did get to the bottom edge of Florida – what? Stick their thumbs out and ask a boat to take them to Havana?

They could try Mexico…but that was much further.

The pigs would either kill him where he stood, or drag him to prison so they could kill him on a gurney ten years later.

Either way, Suzy would be traumatized.

_Jahar – Just Another Hopeless-Ass Retard._

If he could drive her to a safe place...where she could live happily ever after...that would balance the scales.

That was all he wanted right now. Suzy, safe and happy and insulated from the consequences of what he did.

_Yes, she was an American...but this was not her war._

She closed the trunk.

“Do you want me to drive?” she asked.

He sucked in the air he needed to speak.

“No, Suzy. You can’t drive. I know how you drive. You’re scared of speed, and scared of sudden situations. Remember the night you drove my car back to school after the Super Bowl party at Chuck’s? Remember how you freaked the fuck out when the car skidded in the snow and almost ran into a parked SUV?”

“I remember.”

He saved them from paying for costly repairs to the SUV by taking control of the steering wheel and brakes just in time – even though he was high as the John Hancock building.

“We’re not just driving south. We’re escaping. That means the driver can’t be afraid to speed up if the pigs get behind us, or weave through traffic, or lean hard to the nearest exit. You’re a timid driver, and this mission can’t have timid drivers.”

Dzhokhar got behind the wheel of the Saturn.

“Let’s get the hell out of Dodge.”

* * *

I looked down at my hands.

My criminal hands.

The hands that had opened a car that did not belong to me.

My heart hurt. Literally. I felt terrible for Paul, the car-lot owner, who would lose the profit on the sale from this Saturn. We put the Corolla in the same space, but how could he sell a stolen car? And yes, technically Dzhokhar stole a car that belonged to my parents and ditched it.

“We’ll probably have to keep changing cars until we get to Florida.”

His calm tone of voice didn’t make me feel better.

“I’ll try to find used car lots, but...I can’t guarantee we won’t ever steal from an individual.” He sucked in his lower lip. “I may even have to...” He let the sentence trail.

“What, Dzhokhar?”

“It’s best that you not know.”

“Why?”

“Because...it’s not a good thing.”

“Dzhokhar...you left a bomb at a marathon. What could be worse than that?”

His fingers tap-danced on the steering wheel.

“Okay.”

He reached inside his white hoodie.

“Okay, Suzy. You’re on this journey – you have the right to know.”

He pulled out a small automatic gun. It was the first one I’d ever seen not attached to a cop.

“There may come a time when I’ll have to commit armed robbery.” He quickly tucked the gun back into his hoodie. “Tamerlan told me the same thing when we were on our way out.”

_Dammit, Dzhokhar, how much crime are we going to have to commit before we get to Florida?_

_I’m riding in a stolen car with a terrorist who has a gun and will use it to hold up people._

_What the fuck???_

“Why did you want me to open the car?”

The words came out angrier than I wanted to.

Or did they?

“There were probably cameras at the lot. I wanted them to catch us in the act.”

_No._

He wanted my breaking into the car to be caught on tape?

“Why?”

_Why the fuck???_

“Because it will be better for you if...if I’m caught.”

“Wha...?”

“While you were opening the car, I was standing behind you. What you didn’t see was me holding the gun to your back.”

“You didn’t need to do that, Dzhokhar.”

“Yes, I did. I wanted it to look like I was forcing you to do it. That way...you won’t be charged as an accomplice if I’m caught. As far as the world is concerned, I have to be the bad guy. If I get caught, you’ll have to tell an ugly lie to protect yourself.”

“Dzhokhar, I don’t know if I can...”

“You _must!”_ His sudden loud tone shocked me. “It will break my heart if you go to prison, too.”

“But – ”

“Promise me. Promise me you’ll throw me under the fucking bus.”

“I...I will.”

“Will what?”

“I’ll tell an ugly lie to protect myself.”

He kept quiet...waiting.

“I promise.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

A car, even a stolen one, could not run on desperation alone.

We were at a gas station, one of those giant complexes which catered to long-haul truckers. We thought that it would be easier to hide among big trucks and big men.

I had changed into the yellow hoodie, and tucked all of my hair into it. I would go into the main building and pay for the gas, and also buy food, while Dzhokhar fueled the car. He had his head down, yanking his hood far forward, hiding his features in shadow. He handed me sixty dollars – thirty for the gas, thirty for food.

“Do you need to use the bathroom?”

“I’ll do it here.”

Of course. Peeing in public was less risky for him than walking into a brightly lit store.

“Remember, it’s pump 20. Once you pay, it’ll show up on the pump.”

I went into the store and picked up bananas (which were easy to open and weren’t juicy), plus cold soda and water. I stood in line with mostly truck drivers. Since this was a big store, the establishment had naturally put TV screens on the wall to keep people in line entertained. And sometimes informed, because several of them had news channels on.

I never liked this trend, but right now I was ready for an update of the search for Dzhokhar. And me.

Keeping my head as low as possible, I stared at the screen showing CNN.

I froze.

I saw my childhood home.

My mother. My stepfather.

Talking to CNN reporters, in a scene taped earlier today but was repeating for who knows what time to keep the 24/7 conveyor belt of news full. The text on screen read, MISSING GIRL’S FAMILY SPEAKS OUT: Want bombing suspect’s friend to ‘just come home’

The closed captioning was on, so I could see every word.

“Suzy...”

My mother was crying. I couldn’t stand to see her cry. Not now. Not ever.

“Wherever you are...please come home.”

“Miss?”

The clerk was talking to me, but I barely heard him.

“Miss, are you buying gas today?”

“Uhhh...yes! Pump...ummm...twenty? And this stuff.” I dropped the bananas and drinks on the counter carelessly.

“I know Dzhokhar is a strong influence on you. But as long as you are on American soil, you have a way out. And a way home.”

I watched the words on the screen, not the clerk, not our exchange.

”Dzhokhar, Suzy knows her way home. Please let her come home.”

I stumbled away from the counter, but stopped near the door, frozen in my shoes, watching my past reach out for me. I did not see the truckers rumbling past me as if I were a highway divider.

I barely felt the large hand that encircled my arm and gripped it hard.

“I beg you. She needs to be here, safe with us.”

Now an arm clad in white wrapped around me. An arm with a grip of iron. An arm that was not going to let go.

My stepfather was now speaking.

“If she is with the kid because she loves him, she shouldn’t bother coming home. If she can love him after what he has done, she’s just as much a terrorist as he is...”

The arm yanked me away from the television.

“Dzhokhar! – ”

The name dropped out of my mouth like a grenade. I froze in horror.

_What had I done?_

A trucker wearing a cheap nylon baseball cap turned his head towards us. Dzhokhar kept us moving, moving, moving, out of the store, across the parking lot.

I did not protest. Rough treatment was the least of what I deserved.

* * *

I was paralyzed by shame as we drove into the darkness.

_I said his name. I said his name in public, in front of a crowd of people._

_Now he’s going to get caught because of me._

_He might even die._

_That’s a fine way to treat the boy you love. Or thought you did._

“I’m sorry, Dzhokhar.”

“It was your family on the screen. I understand.”

“But I said your name in public...”

“They didn’t even hear it; they were too busy thinking of their own shit. Those fuckers didn’t even recognize my name. The news hasn’t gotten it right yet. They say Zo-kar or Jo-kar. Or Joker.”

“But they’ll pronounce it right eventually. What if I do it again?” I sighed. “I’m such a stupid bitch.”

He put his hand on mine.

“Don’t _ever_ say that, Suzy. You’re not stupid, and you’re not a bitch.”

“Other girls wouldn’t have made that mistake.”

“Other girls would have jumped out and called the FBI once I said I did it.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

“I’m so glad you were strong in there.”

“What else could I do?” Finally, he smiled. “When people are in a partnership, it’s not always everyone pulling their own weight. Sometimes, one becomes weaker. That is when the other must be strong and pull both of them through, all the way.

“Sometimes, during the...bombing project, Tamerlan would be the strong one when I started thinking it was the wrong thing to do. When I started to cry over all the people we would kill – especially the children – Tamerlan would set me straight. ‘How many Muslim lives have the bombs of America stolen? How many precious babies have been blown to pieces because of stupidity, imperialism, and Islamophobia?’ His words propped me up and kept me going, the way I did for you in the store.”

_Do you still believe Tamerlan? Do you still believe the bombing was just?_

“If your family and friends don’t accept you, you’ve still got me. What else can I do – you gave up so much to help me.”

_Is that it? Loyalty in payment for help?_

_Couldn’t it be a just little bit more?_

* * *

Of all the heavens I had ever imagined, none of them looked like the one I was experiencing now.

Sitting on a blanket with my back leaning against a stolen car, looking up at a night sky undiluted with electric lamps and thus allowed to look like glitter sprinkled on a tablecloth of black velvet.

The man I loved sitting next to me, eating Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee ravioli straight from the can, my eyes having gotten so used to the darkness that I could see his lips come down on the plastic fork he used to lift the squares of ravioli to his mouth.

“Don’t worry about forgetting the vegetables, Suzy,” he told me. “There’s vegetables in the tomato sauce. I always said the same thing about pizza sauce. ‘Yah, brah, pizza’s totally balanced.’ Not that they weren’t going to eat that shit anyway.”

We had both been ravenous by the time we parked in this open field, but while one can was enough for me, Dzhokhar needed two to tame his appetite...well, almost two, for he fed me the last ravioli in his second can.

“Thanks, Dzhokhar.”

“You are very welcome, Suzy. Now how about dessert?”

Dessert consisted of Kit Kats broken into sticks and dipped into Nutella, a double-barreled sugar rush that left us both laughing and rolling around on the blanket.

“This is almost as fun as vibin’ on mushrooms.” He put his hands behind his head in the universal expression of “chill.”

“You’ve tried mushrooms? I thought you were just a weed guy.”

“Oh, noooo. I’ve tried all kinds of escape hatches.”

“Like X?”

“Yup.”

“Molly?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Acid?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Cocaine?”

“Once...or twice.”

“Meth?”

“Nah. That’s not an escape hatch, that’s a death wish. Same with heroin.”

“I’m glad.”

“So...how about you? What’s your poison?”

_I’m addicted to a drug called Dzhokhar, and there is no cure._

“Well...I have tried a little beer. And wine.”

“That’s nothing. I wish I had some shrooms right now to share with you.”

“You are the only one I’d want to do that with.”

Now we were both lying down on the blanket. Dzhokhar was looking up at the sky, and I was looking at Dzhokhar. Both of us, I imagined, wishing we could touch what we were looking at.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“I know a game. A game we can play without a board or cards.”

“What is it?”

“It’s called Never Have I Ever. One dude makes a statement which starts with ‘never have I ever.’ Like, ‘never have I ever eaten Kit Kats dipped in Nutella.’ If it’s not true for you, you take a shot. A shot glass of liquor, that is. If it is true for everyone participating, dude who spoke first takes a shot. And so on and so on...until we all get shitfaced.”

“Dzhokhar, there’s just one problem...we can’t get very shitfaced on water.”

“Ewwwerrrhhh. Didn’t think of that. Well, here’s a variation. You ask me a question which starts ‘never have you ever...’ If it’s true, I say yes, and if it’s not, I have to tell you why.”

“Okay. That sounds fun.”

“I’ll let you start.”

“Well...” What did I want to know most about him?

_Not that. Certainly not that._

“Never have you ever done something embarrassing in front of your friends?”

_That was safe._

Dzhokhar palmed his forehead.

“Oh man, you’re harsh.” He laughed. “Okay. This happened, I think, December 2011. My buds Dizzy and Azzman had a little shindig at their crib. Dizzy’s girlfriend Jana had this beautiful creamy white porcelain bowl, which she had brought all the way from Kazakhstan. Naturally, we all poured Red Bull and vodka into it and started drinking. Except me.

“I liked my drinks simple. Pure plain Ciroc in a shiny red cup. It looked like water, and that night I was drinking it like water...until everything around me looked like Skittles on a skillet.

“Ciroc, like water, turns right into piss in the human body. I got so full of piss I could put out a five-alarm fire all by my lonesome. So, I dragged my drunk ass into the bathroom, unzipped my pants, and unloaded into the sink ‘cuz I was too lazy to lift the toilet seat.

“Only I wasn’t really in the bathroom. I wasn’t pissing into the sink. I was pissing into Dizzy’s girlfriend’s beautiful creamy white Kazakhstan punch bowl, which had just been filled with fresh Red Bull and vodka.

“I didn’t realize what I’d done until the whole joint went silent, except for the jams playing on iTunes in the background. I looked around. ‘What? What?’

“Then, they started talking.

“’Jahar, you _are_ the swordmaster.’ ‘You’ve got to be part nigga.’ ‘You’re unzipping and whipping wayyyy too early tonight, Jizz.’

“I wanted to make like a mouse and crawl into a hole in the wall. Shit, how could I pull such a sherm move? A man has to know what his limits are.”

“Dzhokhar, that is not the worst mistake anyone’s ever made. Not even close. Pee washes out of porcelain bowls easily.”

“Oh, Suzy...you’re so diplomatic. I wish you’d been there.”

“I feel bad saying this...but I’d wish I’d been there, too. So at least one person would give you a hug instead of laugh.”

“Don’t kid yourself. You think it’s funny, too.”

“Well...”

“C’mon, Suzy. Pissing in the punch bowl is a fucking riot. It’s shitting in the punch bowl that’s a tragedy.”

I let out a giggle. That was hard to argue with.

“Now I have a good one for you. Never have you ever...made love?”

_OMG._

_Why that question, Dzhokhar?_

“I...thought I did.”

“Tell me more.”

I forced my brain back in time, back to October...back to someone I wanted to delete from my memory files.

* * *

Aiden almost looked like Dzhokhar.

If Dzhokhar had light brown straight hair. And green eyes. And a little bit less height. And a little bit more weight.

He almost acted like him, too…if he had a little less charm and a little more meanness.

I didn’t see the meanness then. No, that’s not true. I heard every word he said about “too many blacks and browns” at our university. The fact that he was sitting across from me at a dining table, holding my hand, softened his words in my ear from racism to youthful ignorance.

Aiden then said he was sorry, he shouldn’t bring up “that stuff” on our first date, and nudged the conversation to our favorite movies.

We were going to make love that night. I knew it, from the way he stroked the palm of my hand with his thumb. I felt I was the only girl on campus who was still a virgin (excepting the religious ones). I thought my virginity a shame and a burden, one that I couldn’t wait to release.

If I could have had Dzhokhar be the one, it would have been heaven.

But, since that wasn’t going to happen, here was another beautiful boy right in front of me, whispering into my ear that he knew a place where we could go, his older brother’s apartment in New Bedford which was empty because he was spending the weekend with his own girlfriend…

And so, in a bedroom with pale blue sheets and a dark blue comforter, smelling of Axe and cigarette smoke and other people’s sweat, Aiden and I rolled around naked, kissed each other hard, until he gasped, “Okay, okay,” reached for his brother’s bedside drawer, pulled out a condom, and then –

I was _experienced._

It wasn’t a beautiful experience. It was intense pressure, followed by an uncomfortable feeling of fullness and then something that was not wet enough rubbing inside of me, rubbing fast and hard and thoughtlessly. Aiden didn’t even touch me down there before he started.

All I could do was hold on tight to him as he pounded me. I didn’t know what to say. He didn’t say anything – just escalating grunts and groans until he shouted, “Fuck!” and let himself collapse on me.

That was it. No “I love you." No “Thank you.” No “That was great,” even.

When Aiden started to snore, I crawled out from under him, then snuggled close to him, stroking his lips with my finger.

It was done. It wasn’t like the books and movies said it should be – but what ever was?

It could only get better...right?

* * *

Aiden took me home the next morning, saying he had to study for a chemistry test. I told him I understood, and wished him luck. He kissed me, and said he’d give me a call soon.

But he didn’t.

I didn’t hear from him for days.

I couldn’t believe it. Aiden and I had made love. That was supposed to bring us closer. To be the foundation of a stronger relationship.

 _What did I do wrong?_ I asked myself. It had to be something I did. Aiden was so much smarter than I was.

When I finally saw him in the hallway, I walked up to him a little faster than I should have and touched his arm.

“Aiden...”

He looked down at me as if I were roadkill flattened in the street.

“Hi.”

He didn’t say a word.

“What’s going on? Did you do well on your test?”

His face – the face I’d thought so lovely when he was on top of me – morphed into a grotesque Halloween mask.

“Why don’t you go eat shit?”

He insulted me, but I was the one who apologized.

“I’m sorry. What did I do wrong?” Now I asked it out loud.

“What did you do?” He let out a short, nasty laugh. “You _sucked_ , Suzy – and not in the way guys like.”

People stopped, or at least walked slower, to listen to the instantaneous drama in real life.

“A dead cat would be a better fuck than you. You just lay there – didn’t do shit...”

“Aiden, I didn’t know. It was my first time.”

“You shoulda watched some porn so you would have known what to do. Like shave your hairy gross pussy, for starters.”

I thought I had been good for him.

“Hey, dudes, a word to the wise.” Aiden pointed at me. “Stay away from this stupid bitch.”

He walked away, but I didn’t see him go. All I could see were my tears.

All I could hear was laughter...laughter I knew was aimed at me.

All I could feel was the taste of the shit I thought I deserved in my mouth...

* * *

“Suzy.”

Dzhokhar took me into his arms. I was crying, crying hard.

“Suzy. Suzy.”

He rubbed my back gently.

“I knew you were going to talk about Aiden...I met him.”

My heart nearly stopped beating.

_What did he tell Dzhokhar about me?_

“My pal Steve told me what that motherfucker said about you...it turned my blood to fire. I made some inquiries, found out where he lived, and when the punk showed his face to me...I beat it back into the Stone Age.”

“No.”

“Hell, yeah. I beat the bitch so bad that he left school. That’s why you never saw him again.”

“You did that...for me?”

He nodded. “I couldn’t do anything else.”

“Why, Dzhokhar?”

“Because that was a total dick move. You don’t humiliate a girl like that. Especially if it’s her first time and she’s scared and unsure and doesn’t know what to do yet. If it’s a girl’s first time, and the experience isn’t that great – dude, that’s on you. You have to show her how to feel good. You have to take the time...because a girl only loses her virginity once...”

His hands curled up into tight, angry fists.

“Goddamnit, it should have been _me!”_

The volume of his voice nearly knocked me over. But I heard every word.

“It should have been me, Suzy. I would have made sure it was good for you. And it’s entirely my fault it wasn’t me. I should have told you. I should have said – ”

He let out a choking sound.

“I love you, Suzy.”

With those four words, the world stood still.

_Did I just hear what I thought I just heard?_

“I’ve loved you for a long time. But I was too scared to say so...I didn’t think I was good enough for you.”

_What?_

“You were the whole package – both beautiful and smart. You were so smart. You knew where you were going. You cared about tomorrow. I just lived from toke to toke, from party to party. I was flunking out this spring.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I felt I didn’t have anything to offer...and now, I have even less. But I still love you.”

“I love you, too, Dzhokhar.” My voice was as sharp and tiny as the last piece of glass left on the floor after a tumbler broke. “I think I did from the moment I saw you. But I thought you were too cool for me.”

“Shit. We’ve sure got timing.” He let out a humorless laugh.

“Better late than never.”

For the first time, I reached out to embrace him in love. He embraced me back, harder.

_Dzhokhar loves me._

_He loves me, and knows that I love him._

_And now he’s bombed the Boston Marathon and he’s running away from every cop in America._

_But I still love him._

_And he loves me._

Dzhokhar slowly moved back from me, his hands moving up to my shoulders.

His eyes looked down on me, shining brighter than any star in the sky. One of his hands slid up to cup my cheek, then the other did the same; the palms of his hands felt as smooth as rose petals.

Then he kissed me.

It started as a light brush of my lips, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wing. Inside, my blood rippled like still water shattered with a tossed pebble. Waves of rosy heat emanated from my mouth and spread to my whole body.

_Oh, my love._

Dzhokhar’s mouth had a tinge of bitterness in it…like the flavor of burnt leaves.

_I don’t care. His smoke is my sugar._

His fingers closed around the back of my neck and gently pushed my head closer to his. His tongue stroked the outside of my lips, back and forth, coaxing me to open wide.

He didn’t need to coax long.

My mouth fell open, and his tongue plunged in to dance with mine. Its tenderness melted the solidity of my bones, turned them into soft powder.

Dzhokhar grabbed me behind the back before I could fall over.

“Hey.” He grinned. “Was our first kiss that mindblowing?”

I smiled back. “What do you think?”

He opened the back door of the car and took out the thinner cotton blanket and pillows. He stood up and surveyed the area briefly.

“If we lie on this side of the car, no one will notice us.”

_If we lie on this side...?_

_Is that an invitation?_

Dzhokhar dropped his load on the thick cotton blanket, then sat down next to me. An icy breeze swept over the field. Dzhokhar pulled the softer blanket over our legs, and I felt warm.

The greatest warmth, though, emanated from our bodies...the bodies that were going to come together tonight.

_Did I just think that?_

His fingers found the bare space between my jeans and my T-shirt…and snuggled up under the cotton.

_This is happening. This is really happening._

The exploring fingers swept up…up…until they found the back clasp of my bra.

“Oh, yeah…found it.”

With a pinch of his fingers, the hooks of my bra disconnected from the loops.

_Having a boy you like…I mean love…take off your clothes is one of the greatest feelings in the entire world. His hands are magical on my skin…it’s like everywhere he touches me, my nerve endings jump up to experience him._

Then…he lifted up my shirt…as I let my arms rise and fall, my bra fell off on its own.

My hands leapt to cover myself. They still thought that Dzhokhar and I were just friends.

“Heyyyy…” He tugged my hands away from my breasts. “Oh…oh, wow, those are so hot.”

He touched my left nipple as if it were as fragile as a blueberry…then reached underneath to cup the roundness.

“So beautiful…” He leaned over until his lips touched the space between my breasts. At the same time, he pressed my breasts against his cheeks.

“Allah was wise when he made male and female so different…”He let out a sigh. “Prolly not a good time to talk about Allah.”

_No kidding, Dzhokhar._

He felt me as if his fingers had become tongues of a starving man and I had become a rack of freshly grilled lamb. His hands moved over me so quickly, it seemed as if he grew as many arms as the Hindu goddess Kali.

I was learning about Kali and other deities in my Comparative Religions class.

_Will I ever go back to my old life?_

_Does it matter...as long as my new life means having Dzhokhar?_

“This is how it goes: you had no other lovers. I had no other lovers. We come to each other as virgins.”

With those words, Dzhokhar washed away the last traces of shame I had left about Aiden.

I lifted my hips to let him slide down my panties. I looked at him looking at me, looking down at the dark pubic hair which had disgusted…

_Who was his name?_

_Who cares?_

“Open your legs, Suzy. Let me see it _all.”_

No disgust. Not in his awe-struck voice, not in the way he petted the hair as if it belonged to an adorable animal.

“Oh, yeah. _Ohhhh, yeahhhh_...you have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

He placed his mouth on my ear, the thin hairs above his lips tickling the tender skin.

“I wanna push my dick deep up in there and get it all good and wet, babygirl.”

Dzhokhar got to his feet, letting the cotton blanket fall around him. He reached down to unbutton his narrow black jeans.

“I can’t wait anymore, Suzy. I want you. I want you now. Do you want me, Suzy?”

“I do want you, Dzhokhar. I need you…I love you. Please…”

I looked up at him with pleading, urging eyes.

“Come inside.”

With trembling hands, he took off his jeans, then his black boxer shorts. I kept my eyes and legs open for him. All of him.

His penis was hard. As hard as it could be, every inch swollen with desire.

It was the second most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life, next to his face. In the moonlight, it looked like it was brushed with gold...brushed with honey...

I rose to my knees and opened my mouth. I brought as much of him inside me as I could. It was less than half, but it was enough to make him gasp and grip the back of my head.

The tip was slick with a salty fluid that was not mine. The taste took me back to last summer, when I had sucked in my first oyster at a dockside restaurant in Edgartown. It was life on the tip of my tongue, the element which seeded us all.

Dzhokhar suddenly pulled out of my mouth.

“Can’t do that, girl...I was about to explode...and you know I wanna save that for below...”

With a leonine lunge, he took me underneath his body, underneath the heat and hardness which screamed out his desire.

Instinctively, I tugged the cotton blanket over him, but he pushed it down.

“Don’t need it,” he gasped. “I’m so hot…hot for you, Suzy.”

“Oh, Dzhokhar…” I let my love make me bold. I took his hand and brought it between my legs. “I’m ready for you…feel how wet I am for you.”

The top of him poked me. It echoed through every inch of my body.

He lifted my hand up and kissed me on the wrist.

“Let me.”

His voice rang strong and true in the night. He would take control. And I would let him.

He moved down towards me.

Lower...lower...

My whole body squirmed at the shock of finally getting what I wanted.

Dzhokhar’s arms gripped me harder. His strength was a force of balance and calm, keeping me in the here and now.

“Suzy...let me in.”

“Yes, Dzhokhar.”

The here and now where he was going to enter me.

“Let me inside...all the way.”

“Yes, Dzhokhar.”

“Ahhhh – ”

And then – he was in.

It didn’t hurt.

It didn’t sting, or itch, or grate.

It was a stroke that made my soul sing.

_This is how it is when it’s the boy you love._

_The one boy who really belongs inside of you._

_It’s so good._

_So right._

“Suzy...are you okay?”

“I’m much better than okay.”

I arched my back and pushed my hips into his.

“I’m yours, Dzhokhar.”

He smiled down at me, and it warmed me just like sunshine.

Then, he started thrusting. Slowly. Slowly thrusting, filling me with love and light and everything that was good.

“Oh, yes,” he murmured. “Oh, yessss....I got you now, babygirl.”

“How...how do I feel?”

“Like heaven on earth...heaven...on fucking...earth.” He held me tighter, and moaned. “My girl...”

Being Dzhokhar’s girl...being held close to his warmth and strength, hearing him breathe and sigh into my ear, feeling his penis push inside of me – sometimes smooth and gentle, sometimes rough and fast....

We both had our heavens on earth.

Then, I remembered a tiny piece of information, gleaming like a fragment of broken glass on a carpeted floor.

We weren’t using protection.

Dzhokhar was naked inside of me, and from the increasing pace and force of his thrusts, his time was coming soon.

_Let him come._

It stunned me, how I threw aside every dire warning I’d ever heard about unprotected sex, from my sex-ed teacher (“Sex without condoms is the original sin”) to an ad posted on the side of a MBTA bus, for the reason that was on the top of the list as the worst excuse: I was in love.

My hands slid all the way down his back…coming to rest on the twin rises of his buttocks.

His entire body shuddered.

“Oh God…oh, please.”

_Oh, Dzhokhar…you’re coming in me. For me._

“I don’t know who I am right now…”

I touched my lips to his earlobe and whispered his name to remind him:

“Dzhokhar… _Dzhokhar…”_

Drawing him into the safe haven of my body, away from a world that wanted to tear apart his.

He groaned loudly into the night, and it was the most beautiful music I’d ever heard.

_You’re every dream I’ve ever dreamed._

_Every wish I ever hoped for._

He rolled off of me, his body landing hard on the plaid blanket. His mouth dropped open, panting; his ribcage rose and fell beneath the taut skin of his chest.

I shifted to my side and snuggled up close to him, wrapping an arm and a leg around him. Our bodies were slippery with sweat that quickly grew cool in the night air. He pulled the cotton blanket over us.

We did not speak for a long time. We did not need to.

The touch of fingers to skin said it all.

I took Dzhokhar’s hand, and we rolled over to face each other. He kissed my forehead

_(love)_

then my nose

_(love)_

then my lips

_(love love)_

And we were a happy boy and girl.

* * *

Dzhokhar sat against the car door, sipping skunk-scented smoke from a thin metal pipe painted to look like a cigarette.

He’d brought a small amount of weed with him, and he needed to ration every tiny grain. If he ran out before Cuba – well, it wouldn’t be pretty.

He was addicted to it. He would never say it out loud, especially where prohibitionists could hear – but yes, pot was as necessary to him as food. He couldn’t even give it up for Ramadan.

_I’m a shitty Muslim, for sure._

He looked down at the girl wrapped in a blanket on top of another blanket. The embryonic sunrise made her brown hair look like a stroke of ink.

_For more reasons than one._

Dzhokhar knew damn well that he was supposed to have left his erection untouched – even by his own hand – until the night he and his bride (whoever that would have been) closed the bedroom door on their wedding celebration.

That would have been easier done in Chechnya. In America…sex filled the air. It came at him through the TV and the computer. It came at him in the lyrics of songs. It jumped in his face from the perfume ads at the train station, from the cardboard cut-outs of women in bikinis that enticed men to buy beer at liquor stores, from the sensibility of his peers who talked of girls as tallies on a scoreboard.

Men in America were supposed to get laid as much as possible – abstinence education wasn’t meant for them. No wonder Dzhokhar’s virginity didn’t make it out of his sophomore year of high school.

America was the land of choices, and sex was no exception. The longest sexual relationship he’d had in his life so far lasted one month, in his senior year of high school. In college…they could barely be called “relationships” at all. He didn’t even spend more than one night with a girl. Fuck buddies, hookups – or, in his own words, scratches (as in scratching his itch) – none of them left her footprints in his heart.

He reassured himself that the girls thought exactly as he did: sex was just another item on the party menu, along with booze and weed and chips. Just another way to feel good and forget the fucked-up side of life.

Suzy was far from just another way to feel good as she could get.

The difference between her and every other girl he’d fucked…it was the difference between one newly born rose and some blobs of sugar shaped to look like a rose on a birthday cake.

The way her thick, silky hair felt lovely wrapped around his throat…

The way her tiny hands stroked his back like a litter of newborn kittens learning to crawl…

The way her mouth kissed his throat, her tongue licking his collarbone from end to end…

The way she moaned his name…he felt it all the way down to his balls…

_Dzhokhar…Dzhokhar…_

All those girls he’d hooked up with…he’d done no more than jack off with their bodies. It had been as emotional as pulling his chain while watching porn on his laptop. Just scratching an itch.

With Suzy…it was a symphony of emotions. Need, desperation, awe…love.

A love that meant something.

A love that made him want to give everything he had…

…the same kind of love he had for Allah.

Dzhokhar dropped his pipe.

Then he dropped down to his knees.

_Please forgive me, Allah! I didn’t mean to equate my love for Suzy with my love for You._

But Suzy was here.

He could touch her. He could hold her. He could talk to her, and she would answer back.

He felt better during five minutes inside of her than in all the hours he spent praying…to what?

A fairy tale that his brother taught him?

Dzhokhar bent down and pressed his forehead against the cool grass.

_Allah, take these sinful thoughts out of my head! I’ll never lay a hand on Suzy again…just give me a sign that You hear me._

Silence.

Upon silence.

Upon silence.

He lifted his head and looked up at the sky. An empty sky that could never give him answers.

_I killed those people for nothing, then._

_I destroyed my life for nothing._

_I ruined my chance of a future with Suzy for…_

He let out a scream which tore the air in two.

“Dzhokhar?”

_Shit._

“Are you okay?”

He gathered up the pipe and tucked it into his hoodie.

The sun had cleared the horizon. If they lingered in this field, where a car was not supposed to be…

Right now, he had to stop thinking about Allah...whoever or whatever He/It was.

That could no longer be his motivation for anything, anymore.

Right now, he had to act as if his head was crystal clear.

_Our lives depend on it. That’s what matters._

“I’m fine, Suzy. I...uh...thought I saw a snake.”

* * *

Back on the road, drinking Doubleshots from the can.

America was wide open for us...or so it seemed, like a welcome mat that was hiding a trap door underneath it.

_Let’s not think about that right now._

“Ummm…do you take the pill, Suzy?”

“No.”

_Thanks, Dzhokhar, for that distracting question._

“Do you have…one of those metal things inside you?”

“You mean an IUD? No.”

He sighed.

“Suzy...I really should have pulled out. We can’t be having a baby, not now, not out here.”

He was right.

“I know, but…I don’t think I could have let you, Dzhokhar. If you tried, I would have pushed you back in.”

“Shit.” He lowered his head and smirked. “I think I came in my pants just thinking about it.”

“Ooooh.”

“Next time we go to the store, we get more boxers. And condoms.” He smiled. “Lots and lots of condoms.”

A fart sneaked its way out from a pair of cheeks.

Not mine.

“Oh, and did I say boxers?”

I smiled back at him. We’d passed the “let’s not offend each other” stage of our relationship. Nothing that came out of Dzhokhar was offensive to me. Not his farts, not his sour morning breath (which had been kind of skunky today), not the jagged edges of his fingernails, not the way the waistband of his underwear rose above the waistband of his jeans.

I didn’t have time for that bullshit. Loving Dzhokhar meant loving everything about him and inside him.

“I wish it were just the two of us, Dzhokhar.”

I looked up into his face. All I could see of it was his nose and mouth; his hoodie shadowed the rest.

“I’m scared of people now. They want to kill you. I want everyone else to just go away and leave us alone.”

“I know, sweet Suzy.”

We sat back in our seats, letting ourselves enjoy the beautiful spring green of the Mid-Atlantic states. Then, we turned on the radio, landing on an AM talk station, and had that beauty spoiled by the increasing rage of a nation against him – and now, me.

“If the fool girl wanted to escape, she woulda done it by now.”

“It looks like the Joker’s got his Harley Quinn.”

“You said it, John. I’m sick and tired of all this terrorist crap. We should just shoot ‘em both on sight – ”

Dzhokhar turned off the radio.

“No more.”

I opened my mouth, then shut it.

_How?_

_How can I ask the man I love a question like this?_

_How can you love a man who left a bomb at a marathon, knowing that it would kill and maim so many people?_

_You love him, you gave him the use of your car to escape justice, and you allowed him into your body. You fucked a terrorist…and you liked it._

_Don’t say it that way!_

_Why not? It’s the truth._

I lifted my head to look at Dzhokhar’s profile.

“Why did you do it?”

_That’s how._

Dzhokhar let out a sigh. That was a sign that he really didn’t want to answer the question.

Still, I kept talking.

“You killed...you killed three people at the Marathon.”

“I know.”

“And a police officer three days later.”

“I didn’t shoot the officer. Tamerlan did...though the law isn’t going to give a shit who pulled the trigger.”

His thumbs stroked the steering wheel.

“Watching him shoot the cop was worse than leaving the bombs. I nearly threw up.”

“But, Dzhokhar...you did know what those bombs were going to do, right?”

“Hell, yeah. I helped build them.”

I had only one more question to ask. It was the hardest question I would ever ask in my life. I knew that now.

“How do you feel...knowing that you’re a killer?”

He lowered his head.

“I hate it.”

His whole body shuddered.

“I hate it so much. I never thought I would do something like this. I never wanted to do something like this. Those people we killed...they broke my heart, Suzy.”

“But you knew the bombs would kill, and you put them down anyway.”

Dzhokhar slammed his hands on the steering wheel.

“We’re in a _war,_ Suzy! We’ve been in a war ever since Bush planned the 9/11 attack. I don’t expect you to understand, though, because you’re a woman, you’re American, and you’re not Muslim.”

That stung.

“America is killing our Muslim people. Not just those they think are terrorists. Civilians. Women and children. With their troops and their air strikes and their fucking drones. It’s a genocide. If Tamerlan and I just sat there and did nothing…what kind of men would we be? What kind of Muslims?”

“But you did the same things you accuse America of doing. You targeted civilians – and you killed three of them. Many more were injured. Some lost limbs.”

“And how many Muslims around the world have been killed and injured by American bombs?”

I didn’t know the answer – and that shamed me.

“It’s far more than three. It’s hundreds of thousands. But do Americans care? No. They get a little scratch and they cry like babies, while they make blood run like rivers everywhere else.”

“I care, Dzhokhar.”

He let out a sigh.

“I don’t think it’s right for my country to bomb indiscriminately. I don’t want innocents to die – anywhere.”

“I believe you, Suzy. But caring is not the same as living it. Imagine watching your people die every day – _every day!_ – at the hands of the people your family thought would rescue them. Imagine knowing you’ll always be suspect because of your religion – even in the most liberal city in one of the most liberal states in the U.S. Imagine going on any news site to read any story about Islam, and reading words like ‘Mu-slime’ and ‘Piss-lam’ written by asshole commenters who want to shoot you with bullets dipped in pigs’ blood and bury you wrapped in bacon.”

He let out a ragged breath.

“I’d better stop talking before the Muslim in me starts hating the American in you.”

I leaned back in my seat.

Had my questions torn the bond that had formed between us last night?

_Typical Suzy. When you talk, you keep on talking until you fuck things up. You couldn’t even hold on to an admitted terrorist who depends on you for transportation and secrecy._

I put a hand over my mouth to stop the scream that wanted to come out.

_You know, he might even kill you now. Why wouldn’t he?_

_He did it before._

* * *

_If you opened the dictionary, Dzhokhar, you’d see a picture of your face next to the word “tool.”_

_You just had to make yourself the Big Bad Scary Muslim Terrorist in front of the girl you love. The girl who said she loves you. You even said the Muslim in you was about to hate the American in her._

_What the ever-loving fuck?_

_If she jumps out of the car and screams “Boston Bomber!” next time you stop…you’ve got only yourself to blame._

Dzhokhar veered towards the nearest exit.

“What are you doing?”

He heard the anxiety and fear rise in Suzy’s voice. It hurt.

_She thinks I’m going to kill her now. I probably did kill her love for me._

He turned right off the exit ramp and entered a two-lane road. They were in a rural area now, with few buildings around. When he spotted a dusty turnaround, he veered off the road and parked.

* * *

“Suzy.”

“Dzhokhar.”

The next words came out at the same time.

“I didn’t – ”

“I meant – ”

“I – ”

He placed his hand on mine.

“Know this: I love you, Suzy. That is not going to change, no matter what. Not even if you turn me in.”

“I’ll never turn you in, Dzhokhar.” That was a promise. “I love you too, and I’m holding on to you for as long as I can.”

He grabbed on to me, squeezing me hard.

“We have to hold on to each other now. We’re all we’ve got.”

His soft seashell lips touched my forehead, and it felt like the kiss of an angel.

I had never felt safer than I did in the arms of a terrorist.

The irony spoke loud and clear.

He let me go, and as he did, his hand brushed against my breast. He let that hand fall upon my thigh.

I took a good look at that hand...then lifted it up and put it on my breast again. Dzhokhar gave me a gleaming white grin.

“Heyyyyy...whatchu want, girl?”

What else could I do but smile back?

“Whatchu think I want, brah?”

Only trust could let me speak so playfully.

* * *

Insanity. That was the word for stopping three times – once in the far reaches of a mall parking lot, once in a rest stop, once (after stealing another car, a maroon Ford Explorer) in a quiet residential neighborhood – for no other reason than to make love when our images glowed from every electronic billboard we saw, bracketing the FBI’s phone number.

Love. That was the word for two young people making up for all the time they had wasted in not telling each other how they felt. Not showing each other how they felt. Not kissing, not licking, not undressing, not groping, not sucking, not fucking.

So many nots that were not anymore.

In the back seat of the car, behind windows that fogged up quickly, we discovered the hidden lands of the other’s skin. I learned that the thick dark swirling hairs of Dzhokhar’s scrotum trapped a scent similar to grilled Portobello mushrooms, and the tight valley below smelled like unsweetened cocoa powder. He told me that I looked like the first pink rose to open in the light of the sun, and tasted like the juices of a lamb grilled right to the edge of readiness.

“You’re not on the edge of readiness,” he gasped as his fingers plunged into my vagina, now plump and juicy with desire. “You’ve jumped in and are swimming in it.”

When it was done, I wrapped myself tightly around him, as if I were a silk scarf which escaped from one of Scheherazade’s tales. I needed to be close to him. It wasn’t greed that compelled me, it was need for what I could only find when touching Dzhokhar: the sweet sensation of merging into him, becoming one body, his pleasure mine, and mine his.

I let myself be a scarf all night. When the sun broke the horizon, Dzhokhar became the backbone for both of us. He would unhook my hands from his body, tell me gently but firmly to wake up and get dressed, and, after I did, usher me into the passenger seat. He let me sleep, curled up like a baby animal, while he drove, fueling himself with Red Bull.

Pushing on through....

Pushing on through...to freedom.

Or whatever else awaited us.

* * *

The tiny park was barely substantial enough for the name. It was a couple of blocks of green space, nothing more, in the middle of a quiet residential neighborhood.

What it did have was what we needed right now: a small log cabin-like structure, most likely used for meetings and parties. For us, it could be a place to hide, and sleep, for the night.

If we could get into it.

“How are we going to get in that cabin?” I asked.

“I know how. Trust me.”

Dzhokhar parked the Explorer across the street from the park. He didn’t give a glance to the parking signs, and it didn’t matter. If the car got towed away overnight, he’d just take another one.

Life got so much easier when you didn’t play by the rules.

We dragged our bags out of the back and trudged toward the cabin, the weight of the bags making this short distance a challenge. After we dropped our bags in front of the door, we noticed a silhouette familiar to both of us a short distance away...only this time, the top could be reached by an outstretched hand.

It was a scale model of New York’s World Trade Center, with the Pentagon in between. Thirteen flagpoles surrounded the building-statues. They were unflagged now because the sun had gone down, but I had no doubt that only U.S. flags had flown on these poles.

My heart felt as if it were standing still, suspended between emotions. Before April 18, I knew exactly how to feel when seeing the old World Trade Center: wistful yet distant sadness for the nearly three thousand lives lost.

Now...did I even have a right to mourn when I stood holding hands with a man who was every bit a terrorist, every bit a murderer, as the men who had torn apart these buildings over eleven years ago? A man whose motives were exactly the same...and who, with his brother, would have volunteered to be a hijacker if given the opportunity?

I looked up at Dzhokhar. I could see him frowning.

“No country feels as sorry for itself as America. And no country has less reason for it.”

He tugged at my hand.

“Let’s get in the cabin, Suzy.”

He kneeled down so he was face-to-face with the keyhole.

“Got your flashlight?” asked Dzhokhar.

I pulled a small, three-inch pink ultrabright flashlight from my pocket, the kind found in buckets next to drugstore cash registers. I had bought it for safety’s sake. Tonight, it would not prevent crime but facilitate it.

“Shine it on the lock.”

I turned on the flashlight. Its bright white lamps revealed an old-fashioned keyhole under the doorknob.

“Aw, yeah.” I could see Dzhokhar’s teeth shine behind his smile. “I can handle this.”

He bent over and unzipped the front pocket of his big black duffel bag. He pulled out an object that resembled a small icepick, and a piece of thin metal with a 90-degree bend on top.

“Tamerlan taught me how to do this – we’re a gifted family.”

He kneeled down so that he faced the doorknob. I kept the light shining on the keyhole as he got to work. He inserted the tension wrench into the keyhole and carefully turned the cylinder to the left, then the right. He slid the skinny pick into the keyhole and placed his ear close to the lock. He chuckled.

“All right.” He slowly pulled the pick out of the lock and turned the tension wrench. The lock broke open with a loud _click!_ , and he twisted the door knob. The door fell open easily. “We’re in.”

We picked up our bags and scurried gratefully into the cabin. The last streams of the day’s sunlight pouring in through the windows let us know that the cabin consisted of one large room. A fireplace on the right side, with a flat-screen TV hanging above it and the doors to men’s and women’s restrooms flanking it. A kitchen on the left, with a full-size refrigerator, stove, and microwave plus a long counter dividing it from the rest of the room. Folding chairs and tables stacked against the walls. A couch with leather-like upholstery facing the TV set.

I saw a light switch next to the front door. I reached for it, but Dzhokhar gripped my hand.

“Wait, Suzy.”

He circled the edges of the cabin, yanking the curtains closed. That made the cabin even darker, but we couldn’t take the chance of someone seeing us through the windows.

Only when every set of curtains was closed did Dzhokhar say,

“Okay. Lights on.”

I flipped the switch. The light came from four simple, rustic-looking chandeliers hanging from the ceiling from black chains, each one carrying eight small clear lightbulbs in the shape of flames.

The curtains were made of gingham, thick enough not to let much light through. They were just what we needed to keep our overnight stay a secret from the neighborhood.

Dzhokhar carried our food bag into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

“Whoa. There’s a whole pallet of water here.”

“We already have water.”

“Not ice-cold.” He used his pick to tear open the plastic covering on the pallet and pulled two bottles free. “Have some, Suzy.”

He was right – ice-cold water tasted so much better, especially after a long, long time riding asphalt.

“I don’t suppose they’d have some Ciroc ‘round here...?”

He opened every cupboard. All we found were big boxes of Cheerios and Frosted Flakes, cans of instant coffee and tubs of powdered creamer, boxes of artificial sweeteners, and a single can of 7-Up.

“Just kidding.” He shut the doors. “Don’t want to get fucked up tonight...”

“Dzhokhar...”

“Yes, Suzy?”

“Did you...did you enjoy all those parties? Getting drunk? Getting high?”

His mouth curled at the ends in an almost-smile.

“I thought I did at the time. Well, I think I thought I did. My memories are pretty hazy...”

“I’d often fall asleep after one red cup of liquor.”

“Ah, my sleeping beauty. You knew exactly where to go...on the bed where everyone put their coats and purses. You’d make your own little nest in there, and fall asleep so soundly...I’d pop my head in every now and then...you looked so adorable, like a page from a storybook.”

“Really?”

“Yeah...” He closed his eyes, and a sigh floated out of his mouth like a skittish fairy. “I had to keep watch, you know. Some guys...well, you know...they might have taken advantage of you. One night, they almost did.”

“What?” I had no idea.

“These three punks – Townies, prolly didn’t even go to the school – crept into your room and started staring at you like starving owls would stare at a plump mouse. You were going to be their prey...but I got there as they were lifting up your shirt. Just the sight of them with their hands on your clothes released the mad Chechen fighter in me. I went after all of them with fists swinging. I didn’t care that it was three-on-one – I was going to tear their asses up. Then Dizzy and Azzman came in, and some of my other birds, and their boys started swarming in, and before you know it there’s a whole fucking rumble in that little bedroom over one precious girl who slept right through it all...”

“Wow.”

Dzhokhar took on three boys – to protect me.

Me, plain little brown mouse Suzy Thompson.

“Tonight, we feast...with cold water and hot ravioli.”

We put our own water supply in the fridge, then unpacked all the canned food we had left. We still had a few cans left...would it be enough to last to Florida, and possibly beyond? Who knew?

The black rectangle of the TV screen taunted us.

_You wanna know something else? You wanna know if THEY know where you are?_

_Turn me on, and you will know all. You will know how close you are to being invaded by a stampede of pigs._

_Turn me on, and you will have the gift of knowledge...or the curse._

My eyes searched, and they found, the thick black magic wand that would open that window to the world.

“Dzhokhar...should I turn on the TV?” I picked up the remote.

He glanced briefly at the screen, then shook his head.

“No. We know the world is after us, Suzy. Does it matter if they’re a mile away, or a hundred?”

He took the remote from my hand and put it down on the kitchen counter.

“Let the world stay behind those doors and windows. We have a much better world in here.”

His arms slid around my waist and brought me to him.

“Much better.”

His dark eyes opened into mine, filling me with the universe they contained. His lips brushed lightly against mine...then seized them as if they were his birthright.

As if?

No, they really were.

Why?

_Because I said so._

“Let me go take a leak, and I’ll be ready for dinner.”

“Okay.” Slowly, like a child releasing a favorite toy, I let him go so he could walk to the men’s room. Then, I went to the kitchen, found two paper bowls, opened a couple of cans of ravioli, added the contents to the bowls, and heated them up in the microwave.

“Tonight’s our lucky night, babygirl.”

Dzhokhar came out of the men’s room, holding two cans of...beer?

“I found these hiding behind a toilet. Still cold ‘cause they’ve been on the floor a long time.” He put them on the counter. “Don’t worry, I wiped them off with a paper towel.”

He popped one open and handed it to me.

What else could I do but take a drink?

“Yeah, I know it’s Bud...but beer’s beer, babygirl.”

* * *

Our bellies were full, our minds were mildly spinning from the beer, but Dzhokhar still pulled me to the center of the cabin.

“Damn, I almost forgot – we haven’t had our first dance yet.”

He wrapped his arms around my shoulders – a little too abruptly, because he stumbled. I grasped him under the shoulders and held him up.

“Thanks, babygirl.” He stood up straight and grasped both of my hands. “Here we go.”

Dzhokhar twirled me around and around...and the tiny cabin transformed into the ballroom of a grand castle, wooden floor becoming marble tile, gingham curtains becoming velvet, tiny electric bulbs becoming candles in crystal chandeliers. The place where the heroine of a fairy tale and her prince invariably fell in love...

_But we already have._

“You know, I wanted to take you to prom.”

“Really?” I didn’t go with anyone because my grandmother had died and my family went to her funeral in Connecticut.

“Yeah. The girl I did go with was just a friend. Ever since then, I often wished we could have gone together. If we had...maybe we’d have been lovers a lot sooner.”

_A whole lot sooner._

_Where would we be today...if only?_

_Not here, that’s for sure._

_Stop it._

_Remember what he said. The world is out there, but only you two are in here._

Dzhokhar smiled down at me as if I were the delicate princess I never dared to hope I could be.

_Well, why not?_

_He is certainly my one true prince._

But yet...

Our only chance for a happily-ever-after would be in a country that neither of us knew.

_So?_

_I’d be happy in Cuba or Mexico or South America if Dzhokhar was by my side._

_Who cares if we don’t know the language?_

_Who cares if we have to give up everything we’ve ever known?_

_Who cares if we never see our family or friends again?..._

A tear rolled down my cheek and fell on Dzhokhar’s hoodie.

_I can give up everything...except the boy who’s holding me now._

_Dzhokhar, you’re my home._

* * *

Dzhokhar could identify three kinds of hard-ons.

The first was the everyday kind, the ones you got in the morning or when your niggas sent you pics of tits and asses.

The second was the kind you got when you knew for sure you were going to fuck a real girl. The kind that hurt if you were wearing new or tight jeans.

The third kind, the kind that was happening to him right now, was when you loved a girl so much you would walk through a wall of fire to get to her. You would crawl naked through a mile of broken glass. You would suck your worst enemy’s dick – and have it shown on YouTube – if that was the price of admission to have that girl.

This was his first number three.

It was thousands of years of evolution concentrated in seven hard inches that strained the teeth of his jeans zipper.

His hands were up her shirt now, way up in her shirt, her inhuman softness transmitting signals to his brain, which in turn sent messages fast as lightning down to his heart and to his dick.

To his heart, it said, _Love this girl. Love her with all your life._

To his dick, it said, _Get all up in her and fuck her. Fuck her hard._

He could do both.

Dzhokhar grasped the back of Suzy’s bra and unhooked it. He slipped the straps off her shoulders, and she helped him by shrugging off her shirt and tossing it on the floor.

“Oh...” That was the only word he could say after his eyes widened for Suzy’s breasts. Allah knew he’d seen plenty of breasts in his life, most of them onscreen, some in the real world – but these were the breasts he wanted to live between, the breasts he wanted to lick and suck and play with as if he were a baby again.

_Maybe under their muscles and body hair and swagger, all men really want to do is suck a tit and get back into the pussy._

Dzhokhar reached out and tugged Suzy’s leggings down. She wore the same white Hanes panties that she’d been wearing since they’d run away. She’d bought fresh underwear for him, but not herself; he’d have to do something about that soon.

But not right away.

Girl underwear, unlike boy underwear, got better the longer it was worn.

He leaned into her center, breathing in the sweet essence of girl. That was an aroma that no one could accurately describe except...well...it was hot, sexy _girl._

This was the smell that drove dudes wild. Not some liquid in a bottle.

_Fuck._

Dzhokhar grasped the elastic of her panties with both hands. He yanked them down, hard. A little harder than he really meant to, but damn, that smell of girl was driving his car now. With the pedal on the metal, for now his nose was full of girl-smell, straight from the source – Suzy’s pussy and the hair around it which trapped the concentrated scent until it drove him mad.

“Ohhh – ”

He plunged headfirst into the fluffy fuzz. His tongue leapt out and introduced itself to Suzy’s precious hidden flower that made girls sing if a man licked it just right.

He knew how to lick it just right.

Suzy gasped, and nearly fell over.

Dzhokhar took control. He grabbed her back, then stood up just long enough to lead her to the couch. He sat her down, slipped her panties off, opened her legs wide, and dove right into heaven.

He had to shake his head at those stupid fuckers who just wouldn’t go down on their girls, even if their girls went down on them with no complaint. Those birds didn’t know what they were missing – an explosion of concentrated girl-essence, and the guarantee that she would be down to fuck after she came.

Suzy was getting into it now. Way into it. She was open wide, pushing his head deep into her pussy, moaning and gasping, “Oh, yes...oh, Dzhokhar...”

_That’s my name, babygirl. Wear it out. Wear it out like a box of free Stüssy._

“Dzhokhar!”

He could feel it. He could feel her tighten up, her bud swelling, and he grinned with pride.

_Aw, yeah._

* * *

Dzhokhar leaned back on the two pillows, feeling like a king in every inch of his body. And he did mean every inch.

The couch had a nice little secret, a folding bed underneath its cushions. And that was a damn good thing, especially right now.

Suzy straddled him around the waist, her little kitten-hands petting his chest. Her hair flowed over her body, making a curtain for her lovely round breasts – which he could reach out and touch in this position.

So hell yeah, he did.

_Oh, God...my cock is hard enough to cut diamonds...at least it feels that way._

_I’ve never been this down to fuck before..._

“Suzy," he growled, “I’ve got something for you to sit on.”

She scooted up, and Dzhokhar reached down and grasped his cock at the base so it pointed at Suzy’s face.

If he lived to be a hundred, he’d never think of Suzy’s smile as anything less than a gift he couldn’t believe he earned. Her smiling at the sight of his cock only made it that much sweeter.

_I want to crawl inside her and live there forever._

_Her hair is more fragrant to me than the flowers which are said to blossom in Jannah._

_Her nipples are sweeter than the first date eaten to break the Ramadan fast._

_Her pussy…it delights my tongue more than lamb shashlyk marinated in fragrant spices._

He reached down and opened her with his fingers.

_I know that I’ve sacrificed my key to the door of Jannah forever. But I can, and I will, enter this precious tender gate._

He kept his girl open with one hand while the other gripped his cock, naked because he never remembered to get condoms. He pointed his tip toward her opening.

“I want you, Suzy. I want you so much, it hurts.”

Suzy lowered herself onto his cock. Her inner muscles tightened around him, sucking in every inch like a hungry mouth.

“Dzhokhar,” she gasped. “Your cock feels so good inside of me...”

“Then fuck me, babygirl. Fuck me as hard as you want.”

She did – real hard. She wanted it. She wanted it bad. She fucked him until she was grunting with each stroke. She fucked him until her skin glistened with sweat. She fucked him until her lower lips turned deep pink with cock-hunger.

Dzhokhar had to compel himself to keep his eyes on her as she moved above him, as he moved within her.

Not because he didn’t want to look.

He did.

More than a thirsty man craved water.

But...

Suzy’s beauty, more intoxicating than a prime strain of weed, or a tab of acid dissolving beneath his tongue, could make him come right now if he left himself feel its full force.

He didn’t want this to end.

Not soon.

Not later.

Not ever.

His body couldn’t take it anymore.

He lifted his thighs and, with a move he’d learned in high school wrestling – which now seemed forever ago – he hooked his leg around Suzy’s waist and rolled her over on her back. She let out an adorable squeal.

_Oh, girl._

Now he could fuck her fiercely. He pushed faster and harder, listening to the raging fire in his cock. He could feel the anticipation grip his balls, tighten his asshole. She opened her legs wider for his relentlessness, and he took full advantage.

The point of no return was coming.

Coming...

_Coming..._

His cock contracted from base to tip, pulsing, pushing out the come, one, two, three, deep into his girl, all the way into his girl, oh yes, oh _fuck_ –

Dzhokhar threw back his head and screamed.

This moment wasn’t anything he could share with his niggas.

He knew the physical sensation fucking straight – the best feeling than a human being could ever have, the drive which kept the human race going.

But with Suzy, only with Suzy, did he feel like he was giving his life.

Literally.

That’s what sperm was. The seed of life. His life.

_If I’d bought condoms, I wouldn’t have used them anyway._

_I want to give her this._

_My life._

_My love._

_Everything I have._

He fell down on her when it was all over. He had emptied himself, yet he still felt filled.

He knew what it was that filled him.

_Love._

Even after he had burned up his desire (for now), the love remained, stronger than ever.

He covered them both up with the blanket and curled up beside her.

“I love you, Suzy,” he whispered into her ear.

“I love you too, Dzhokhar.”

Those five words were a gift from the universe. A gift beyond priceless.

A gift he didn’t deserve, but would never let go of.

* * *

Light snuck in through the tiny spaces in the fabric of the curtains.

My eyes were half-open, but I could see Dzhokhar walking around the cabin, naked, holding his jeans with one hand. He was always a beautiful boy, but he was insanely so in the nude – a Greek kouros statue walking tall, muscles working under milky skin, the small plump mounds of his buttocks tucked neatly under his back.

He stood still, tilting his head a little. Then, he quickly put his jeans on. He looked around for his shoes, found them, and stepped into them.

“Dzhokhar?” I croaked.

He returned to the couch and answered by kissing my hand. His tongue reached into my mouth, and my own answered him back. My hand reached up and stroked his bare chest before he put his white hoodie on.

I reached for my panties on the couch.

“Let me.”

Dzhokhar plucked the underwear from my hands.

I let him, all right. I let him slide my panties up my legs, and let him hook my bra back up. I could feel his blood rushing madly under his skin.

He found my shirt and pants. His hands reluctantly covered me back up. His eyelashes shadowed his sorrow-darkened face.

“What’s the matter?” I asked him.

He gave me a look that pierced my heart.

“Everything.”

He picked up my hoodie.

“What’s going on?”

“They found us.”

I instinctively moved towards the window, but he held me back.

“Don’t let them see you.”

He hooked his foot into one of the straps of his duffel bag and pulled it towards him.

“I hoped I wouldn’t have to use this.” He unzipped his bag. “I’m sorry, Suzy.”

I looked up and saw him clutching a rolled-up length of clothesline.

_This is the man who loves you, Suzy._

_He won’t let you come to harm._

_He won’t._

Dzhokhar kneeled down beside me.

“I know how to make it look like you’re tied up tight...but you really won’t be. I wouldn’t put it past the pigs to try to blow this place up or burn it down.”

He wrapped my wrists in the plastic-coated rope.

“To get out of this, just pull it apart. Try it to see how it works.”

I did, and what looked like a tight binding came apart easily.

“Wow. Where did you learn how to do this?”

“Don’t ask.”

He re-tied my wrists, and did the same with my ankles. Then, he reached into his duffel bag again and pulled out another object.

A pressure cooker.

It was filled with something heavy, for he held on to it with a struggle and only let it drop to the floor when it was close enough.

He quickly opened his backpack, emptied it of clothing, wallet, and everything else, and slipped it over the pressure cooker.

He had one more bomb.

One more bomb...to make sure they didn’t take him alive.

“Dzhokhar...”

He rolled over his backpack and zipped it up, hiding the pressure cooker.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to let the world know what’s up. Again.”

He sat down beside me and gripped my hands.

“Remember this, my love: in a world where Tamerlan and I never bombed the Marathon...I would have stayed with you forever. I would have married you, no matter what my family would have said. I don’t care that you’re not Muslim. I don’t care that you’re not Chechen. All I care about is the girl inside. The only girl I’ve ever loved in my life. The only girl I’ll ever love...in the time I have left.”

He pressed his forehead to mine. His tears fell freely, landing on my cheeks like summer rain, blending with my own tears. We both sobbed, the ugly-looking kind of sobbing that came from the utter shattering of hope, the kind that brought no catharsis.

“Suzy...I love you with every beat of my heart, with every drop of my blood. I would give anything in the world to spend the rest of my life with you...I do this to keep you safe.”

Dzhokhar pressed his lips to mine.

“Remember that I love you.”

He stroked my cheek with one finger, his touch feeling like the brush of a dove’s wing. His lips turned up in a slight smile. I looked into his eyes...and saw a universe of love behind the tears.

_No man will ever love you as much as Dzhokhar has. You were a lucky, lucky girl for the past three days, Suzy._

_You can let him go. It will tear your heart apart...but you can let him go, knowing what a treasure you had._

“I love you, too, Dzhokhar. Forever.”

“Forever.”

The word came out of his mouth as a puff of air.

“Dzhokhar...”

“Please promise me...stay here and don’t say a word.”

His hands slowly slipped out of mine. He yanked the backpack onto his back, with much effort, and slowly stood up.

My tears melted his face in my vision.

“Promise me! _Please!”_

“I promise.” My voice sounded like it came from the bottom of a lake.

_This is the last time I’ll ever see him._

“Don’t believe the next words that come out of my mouth.”

He turned the doorknob and leapt out the door.

“All right, you fucking pigs. Stay where you are. There’s a bomb in the cabin, and I’ll blow up the American cunt if you make one goddamn move!”

I gasped. That voice was not Dzhokhar’s. It was too slow. Too heavy. Too foreign.

He was giving the cops exactly what they expected: a scary Chechen superterrorist, a stock villain from a crappy action flick.

“Don’t do anything foolish,” a voice answered back with equally clichéd dialogue.

Silence.

Then, shouts of protest.

Then, the loudest sound I’d ever heard in my life.

The same sound I’d heard on the news a little more than a week ago.

I toppled over on the floor, still keeping my wrists close together.

_Dzhokhar, what have you done?_

The door opened with a bang.

Suits of black Kevlar swarmed into the cabin like deranged robots from a sci-fi movie. Some of them went into the bathrooms. Some went into the kitchen to open cabinets.

Some pounced on me, loosening my ties, searching me thoroughly for bombs. I let myself grow limp, like a rag doll, pretending not to feel the invading hands on my breasts and thighs.

“What...what happened to him?”

“He’s where he belongs right now, Miss Thompson.”

_What does that mean?_

“Can I see him?”

The Kevlar suit that had answered my question took my hand, lifted me up, and led me out the cabin door.

The little park was filled with white smoke. The leaves on the trees near the cabin fluttered...

Just like the international flags at the finish line.

My eyes searched for Dzhokhar in the smoke.

I did not find him.

A small gray object rested in the grass.

I leaned closer.

It was made of charred cloth, cloth that used to be white. The cloth enclosed something else...something white...and red...

A human hand, severed from its body, with a cellphone detonator nearby.

Death by pressure cooker bomb was brutal.

That white hand would be the last I ever saw of my lover...and it was beautiful.

As were the other pieces of Dzhokhar left in the grass...every drop of blood, every shard of bone, every strand of hair, every chunk of flesh...all of him.

The lips that had kissed me and the larynx which had expressed words of love and the lungs which had breathed in and out, sometimes normally, sometimes hard and fast, the stomach which had digested the Doritos and Nutella and Chef Boy-Ar-Dee I’d purchased for him, the thighs which had tensed between mine...

The testicles which had pulsed for me.

The penis which had hardened and orgasmed...for me.

_I want you, Suzy._

_I want you so much, it hurts._

The cold spike of grief, the truth of what I had just lost, finally broke open my heart.

He was every dream I’d ever dreamed.

Every wish I’d ever hoped for.

Dzhokhar...

_DZHOKHAR!_

* * *

I started screaming, and the Kevlar suits dragged me away.

* * *

 _If I get caught,_ Dzhokhar once warned, _you’ll have to tell an ugly lie to protect yourself._

So I did.

I told them that he had pointed his gun at me as soon as we were in my car. I told them he had called me names. Pig. Slut. Whore. I told them that he had hit me for being too slow to break into the stolen cars. When they asked if he had abused me sexually, I said yes.

That was what kept me out of prison. America believed the story it wanted to believe, and in this case it was the story of an innocent American girl kidnapped and brutalized by an evil Muslim terrorist.

People felt sorry for me after that. But they kept their distance. Even people whom I’d known for years didn’t know how to deal with me. I had the big black X of trauma painted on my face. I was a living reminder of how life could go terribly wrong, without warning, without reason.

No one wanted to get too close to that reminder.

Could I blame them, really? Honestly, I didn’t want to share my experience with anyone, either.

Only when I turned my bedroom light off could I unlock the beautiful truth. The tender words that awakened me to my beauty at last. The soft, stroking touch that taught my skin what love and desire felt like. The electric bodily connection which felt like anything but abuse.

Dzhokhar, the world’s terrorist. Dzhokhar, my one true love.

* * *

When I didn’t get my period at the time I expected it, I blamed stress for it. I’d had stress before, and it never had this effect…but how else could I explain it?

When another month went by without a visit from my monthly enemy, I could no longer make that claim.

A drive to a drugstore where I’d never been, a purchase from a clerk who hadn’t spoken to me before and wouldn’t recognize me under my big hat and sunglasses. A few minutes in the bathroom…and then tears that lasted for days.

I did not tell my friends or family until it was too late to hide. No one thought it was good news.

“Ohhh, mannn, I hate him even more now.”

“If you want to talk about it, I’m always here.”

“It’s not too late for an abortion.”

“You don’t have to have that terrorist’s baby.”

“Here’s the website for RAINN.”

The larger I got, the greater the sympathy. I carried the proof of my degradation within me.

Or so they thought.

* * *

Up to the day I went to the hospital, no one knew what I was going to do.

They were all hoping for adoption at this point. It was human nature not to want reminders of crime hanging around. A closed adoption, of course, so that the child would not have to grow up knowing that his or her father was a terrorist and a murderer.

Many long and often painful hours later, when I held my tiny pink mewling son in my arms, my mother asked me what I would do.

“He’s staying with me,” I said.

“But he’ll always remind you of what happened.”

“I know.”

I looked down into the dark gray eyes of the boy whose name I’d held in my heart for months.

I gave him this name, a name that linked the hero of one of my favorite children’s books to the icon on his father’s Twitter feed...

A name that would shock the world and bring disbelief and hatred upon my head...and my baby’s, too.

But what else could I do?

_**Aslan Dzhokharovich Tsarnaev.** _


End file.
